


Between the Scylla and Charybdis

by jld_az



Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: **THIS IS A WiP**aka Martin's post-Patternfall angstfestWherein the Prince of Rebma is reminded of what he's lost, what he's overcome, and learns some harsh truths about his lineage's convoluted legacy.Title from 'Wrapped Around Your Finger' by The Police
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	1. [prologue]

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a '[And We Are Merely Players](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709362)' interlude piece, told entirely from Martin's POV, running parallel to Tristan's story starting with chapter 6 of '[A Simple Twist of Fate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853738/chapters/71795055#workskin)'.

“Did you forget your key, pasăre?”

Tristan was chuckling beneath the words, his question growing louder as the door swung open, but the expression he wore was one that grabbed Martin in a visceral way. In fact, had the eyes been green rather than grey-blue, had he been looking down into them instead of up, it might’ve curled his toes a little.

Sometimes, the man’s resemblance to his sister was uncannily disquieting.

The heat faded quickly from Tristan’s expression as he realized who’d been at the receiving end however, and Martin was determined to do them both a favour by defusing the embarrassment of him apparently arriving before Cassidy _(shit)_ as quickly as possible.

“Didn’t realize you’d ever sent one,” he replied with a grin, ignoring how the hand that had been moving to curl across his nape was being redirected toward his shoulder. “Also, did you just call me ‘bird’?”

Tristan’s brows hiked up awkwardly, voice sharpening a little.

“Oh, hey,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Uh .. yeah. Sorry. You’re-”

“Oshit,” Martin chirped in return, and backed down a step. “You’re expecting _actual_ company.”

 _That_ worked. Tristan relaxed, dropped his chin with a sigh, and his grimace became wry relief. He thumbed toward the stairwell.

“-early. Jackass.”

“Sorry,” Martin offered as he slid past, pausing while his host closed the door before following him up the steps. “Time slips a little when I don’t pay attention.”

Tristan turned back over his shoulder as he ascended, one brow up.

“Are you being literal, right now?”

Martin shrugged. “Kinda?” When Tristan continued to look his way, genuinely curious, he offered up, “It’s hard to explain, but the short version is I think Shadows drift, and that’s why we get time differential between places outside the GC.”

Tristan made a thoughtful sound as he reached the landing, and paused to regard Martin a few strides from the kitchen.

“How long’s the long version?” he asked.

Martin dropped his bag on the mission bench. Again, his shoulders rose and fell in ambiguity.

“Suppose that depends on how metaphorical I get,” he admitted. It was just a theory at the moment, peppered with the sort of analogies that tended to evolve in the pondering. “How early am I?”

Tristan barked a laugh as he made his way to the icebox, and Martin heard the familiar clanking of bottles from inside.

“She’s on the 2:40 Express,” the other man supplied. “The hack should get her here around three.”

Martin glanced at the clock over the stairwell. Its hands pointed to 12:21.

“Yeah, I could get the core of it out before then.” His attention shifted back to Tristan as his host passed over a Vermilion Ale, then swung the base of his Hammerhead toward it. The bottles connected with a light _clack_.

“Slàintate,” Tristan offered.

“Ata’leatsa,” Martin responded.

They sipped, and Martin moved his bag to the guest room as they migrated to the terrace.

* * *

“So what you’re saying is Shadows are a bit like those floating marketplaces in Zlaturoman,” Tristan suggested. “As long as they’re anchored down, or tethered together, they can be completely different places - sell completely different wares, to keep with the theme - but not leave their established region of space/time.”

Martin considered, then nodded. Assuming the one being referenced was like any other he’d encountered, it sounded apt.

“Basically, yes,” he replied. “But anchors can still only do so much, right? There’s always going to be a little drift from side to side, up and down the river.”

Tristan nodded slowly. “And even though you’ve dropped anchor in Malwain, Texorami still bobs on the current, because it’s so far away.”

Never let it be said his cousin was not an intelligent man. Martin regarded him from the other end of the arched sofa, and raised his bottle in affirmation. Tristan looked introspective for a moment, then huffed a little laugh.

“Bailey and Gray used to have discussions like this _constantly_ , back at The Foundry,” he said. “I thought a lot of it went over my head, at the time. But I guess not.”

Martin tried not to let the comment set him back. It was rare that Tristan talked about men from his unit he’d lost in the war, and while part of that was undoubtedly due to the general sense of responsibility and regret that came from being a commander, there was also the fact that he was still recovering substantial chunks of memory from around that same time. So Tristan sharing a recollection could be a mixed bag - sometimes he was voicing something as he remembered it, other times he was finally stringing together the right words to express himself - but Martin found if he treated them all with the same mild acceptance, then it happened more easily each time. And that _had_ to be a good thing.

This one though .. The Graves .. It brushed up against what he’d come to think of as a Gheneshan level of vulnerability, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. If he even _should_ respond.

Thankfully he was saved from needing to decide by a light female voice calling from the front room,

“Tristan?”

The man visibly brightened; perked up like a puppy, almost. Martin spread his arms across the back of the curved sofa, and settled into his seat as his host set his bottle aside and stood, making long strides toward the apartment. He heard a bright ‘Hi!’, but nothing else for several moments. So he ran a finger behind his left ear to give himself something to listen to, and worked on finishing his beer; admired the label as it glinted in the sun. It was pretty: orange and gold and (of course) vermilion-

“Hey, Marty.”

He glanced at his watch, and marvelled at their restraint. Paused sim0ne’s playback again, and got to his feet.

“This is Cassidy,” Tristan said, indicating the woman at his side.

Martin’s first thought was that photos didn’t do the pair of them justice, but only because Autochrome failed. She was as lovely as he was handsome, and together they shone like a fairytale.

“Hello, Martin,” Cassidy said with a bright smile, offering out the hand Tristan wasn’t holding as they rounded the sofa. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Martin clasped it briefly, mirroring her expression. “Likewise,” he replied. “How was your trip?”

“Blessedly uneventful,” she returned. “Yours?”

“Swifter than intended,” he admitted with a rueful laugh. “Apparently my time management is a little out of whack. Sorry about that.”

Cassidy waved it off with a smile as Tristan directed her toward the seat he’d previously occupied, and bent to retrieve his beer from the decking.

“Viaţă beatha,” she lilted, settling into the upholstery and crossing her knees in front of her. Martin was reminded of the Hepburns: Katherine’s confident stature, and Audrey’s demure charm.

“Beatha u’ară,” he conceded, grinning.

Tristan laughed. Cassidy’s attention snapped to, and she glowered at him.

“And here I was under the impression you hadn’t spent much time in Malwain,” she said, clearly addressing Martin, but leveling the other man with a faux outrage. “Yet you speak like a native.”

“Don’t look at me,” Tristan countered, stepping back with one palm and a half-empty beer raised. “He came that way.”

* * *

They communicated in little touches, as though they’d been together for years rather than months.

They doted on one-another (‘Get you another, pasăre?’, “Thank you no, mi milis.’), yet never seemed to encroach upon the other’s autonomy.

They coiled up on the sofa after dinner with a couple’s choreography that prodded a bruise deep in Martin’s heart, and with _Mud Slide Slim_ playing in the background he felt a little melancholy that Aunna wasn’t there to witness it.

(Oh sure, she’d have given her brother all the best shit for the way he never let his girlfriend’s water glass get less than halfway empty over dinner, and more than likely dialled her wordplay up to eleven for the occasion. But she’d have liked Cassidy. She’d have rooted for them like hell.)

It was clear that Tristan hadn’t revealed the full extent of Martin’s relationship with Aunna, however. Her reaction to an offhand crack about having a younger sibling ‘by proxy’ confirmed that for him: one eyebrow ticking upward, neck arching in the slightest head tilt, he got the impression that Cassidy was _only then_ beginning to suspect there might be a bigger picture to assemble. The realization drove home how much he appreciated Tristan’s confidence, even with a moot point. And the way she let conversation continue to flow around her curiosity, rather than immediately digging for details, made sharing a reminiscence or two as the evening wore on easy; a subtle way of assuring his cousin _If she brings it up to you later, answer as you like._

* * *

“ _No,_ ” Cassidy gasped, looking up from the plate she’d been towelling dry, mouth dropped open. “Someone _killed him_ after that album?”

“On _that_ Earth, yes.” From his seat at the island, Martin’s gaze flicked to include Tristan as he added, “The one _I_ spent time on though, he survived an assassination attempt and became a vocal activist for mental health awareness. Eventually served three terms as Senator for the State of New York, underwent cancer treatments at sixty-something, and finally retired to Saratoga Springs before passing on in his sleep at seventy-two. Yoko followed him about five months later.”

“Fascinating!” She set the dry plate in the rack, and accepted the damp one Tristan passed over. “How many variations of Earth are there?”

“Infinite,” her partner replied. Then looked a little skeptical of himself, and cast over his shoulder, “Right?”

Martin met his gaze and shrugged. “Probably. Do you really wanna dive back into that conversation _right now_ , though?”

He redirected Tristan’s attention to the clock over the entryway: ten after eleven. When he turned back, the other man was nodding with a wry twist to his expression.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he said, passing Cassidy the last plate. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Feels more like a road trip discussion anyhow,” Martin agreed. “Good excuse for a practical demonstration.”

“Followed by a practical exam, no doubt,” Tristan laughed heartily, pulling the stopper to drain the sink. Cassidy grinned at the dish in her hand, wiping carefully. “Something like ‘Find me an Earth where The Beatles didn’t split up in the first place’.”

“I’m sure it exists, somewhere,” Martin conceded. “Or maybe one where they played Woodstock as a final hoorah, instead of the rooftop at Abbey Road.”

“That was an outdoor concert, wasn’t it?” Tristan took up another towel as he turned, resting back against the edge of the basin. When Martin nodded, he added a bemused, “Why would you wish that on anyone? I feel like Aunna told me it pissed down rain for three days straight.”

“It did, the first time she went,” Martin replied. “Only it was such a great show, she decided a few years later to find a version with the same lineup, but a better weather forecast.”

Tristan pondered that a moment while drying his hands, then gave a thoughtful hum.

“I mean, if Benedict could do it with combat scenarios,” he offered at length, setting the towel aside.

Martin made a concessional gesture. Cassidy shifted her attention between them as she hung her own towel on the stove rail, asking,

“Is it really so pedantic, Out There?”

“It can be,” Tristan smirked, one hand coming to rest at the small of her back when she mirrored his lean against the counter.

“If you’re into that sorta thing,” Martin added with a chuckle. “But I’m sure there were more significant events than a sunny weekend in August to make it different from, say, the Earth that Corwin and Florimel spent time on.”

“Well, they both had ‘disco’,” Tristan advised. “And apparently a place called ‘Studio 54’.”

“Aunna would’ve said that confirmed some evils were universal,” Martin laughed in return.

“Was that where you met?” Cassidy asked, yielding into Tristan’s touch and stepping a little closer as he moved his hand to rest on her opposite hip. “Woodstock?”

It was a casual question, floated unobtrusively into the conversation. Martin answered her with comparable ease.

“Funnily enough, no. That didn’t happen for almost another decade, by that Shadow’s calendar.” He settled back on his barstool, idly scratching his lightly-bearded jaw in thought before continuing. “It _was_ the first of maybe a dozen times we were at the same venue around the same time and didn’t actually connect, though.”

Occasionally it’d been a matter of circumstance - he’d have left a few hours before her arrival, or decided to go left from the exit instead of right - but more often than not they’d passed within days of each-other. Until that sultry summer night of ‘77, anyway.

“Curious, the way things work out.”

Tristan’s voice was a little distant, and it took Martin a moment to notice the lull in conversation. When he glanced up to apologize for checking out, he found Cassidy regarding him with a new awareness, and Tristan regarding _her_ with…

He keenly regretted not giving them at least an afternoon alone together before arriving. They were very good at banking it, but he knew real heat when he saw it.

“We can save that tale for another time, too,” Martin decided, stepping down from the barstool, then shifting it closer to the counter.

The motion grabbed the other man’s attention. “Turning in?”

“Before I catch my second wind,” Martin nodded. He offered the pair of them a warm smile, and ran a finger behind his left ear. “T, thanks for dinner. Cassidy, it’s been a pleasure. Good night.”

He saw more than heard their replies as he made a slow, backward retreat to the guest room. Because synthesizers and strings were building a slow crescendo in his head, which meant two minutes until Gilmour’s guitar, forty-four minutes until the album ended-

-and he kinda wished he had a way to tell sim0ne she’d chosen well, because _Wish You Were Here_ was _exactly_ what he wanted to listen to right now.

* * *

Whether they were quiet or not didn’t matter. There was an electricity in the air that prickled across his skin regardless, and an undercurrent of envy that kept him up long after the music faded.

* * *

When the courier tapped at his window shortly before dawn, truth be told, the first thing he felt was gratitude.

Paranoia was hard on its heels, though.

Because only three people would send him a message via Pattern-summoned creature, and one of them was sleeping two rooms away.

Martin stepped out of bed and hoisted the glass; untied the narrow canister from the gull’s long, aubergine leg. It snapped its hooked beak at him with an air of impatience, and flew away.

“The Queen is dying,” the message read, in his aunt’s familiar lettering. “She’s asking to see you. Come soon, if you will.”

Martin dropped his chin to his chest.

_Fuck._

It wasn’t the sort of thing you could say no to, and not come across as a self-important asshole. Grandmother on her deathbed meant carte blanche on visitation requests, regardless of the past. And one hoped for closure, when they could.

So he quietly unpacked what he’d brought for leaving, and repacked everything else. Scavenged a sheet of paper from the writing desk, and scrawled a quick note on it; left it next to the coffee he’d brewed, atop a small stack of LPs. Paused just long enough to sift through the albums, place a specific one on top, and add a quick postscript.

Then he folded Shadow to the yard outside the livery. It wasn’t easy to do this close to Amber, and would become impossible once he reached the Embassy and picked up the Path to the Crixa. But at least he didn't leave the front door unlocked as a result of his departure, and Tristan would no doubt appreciate the courtesy.


	2. [one]

Although Martin had mounted up in Cathair du Varos just after dawn, and been moving at a steady jog for perhaps three-and-a-half hours (most of it in silence when sim0ne sadly - but unsurprisingly - stopped functioning en route, leaving the opening riff of ‘Judy Blue Eyes’ caught on a slowly evolving loop in his head), Amber’s clock ran far enough ahead of Malwain’s that it was already early afternoon by the time he reached the Realm of Order, and the sun was an imposing golden orb beaming down from an intensely blue sky, with wisps of cloud offering little by way of cover as he traversed the foothills between Arden and the eastern ocean.

The heat was near stifling in places, pockets of still air turning rocky outcroppings into ovens, and sweat began to prickle beneath his collar, collect uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. Martin dropped the reins over the pommel to roll up his sleeves; popped the top button of his shirt, and fluttered the placket to waft a makeshift breeze down his chest. He glanced up and left to scan the rise of Kolvir, occasionally catching a glimpse of the south watchtower jutting out from the perimeter wall of Amber Castle far above, and briefly considered the response he’d received to the courier he’d sent along the Path from Malwain-

_No Court today. If you’d like to swing by, I’ll give you a shortcut. ~ R_

-before deciding against deviation. Given his vantage, rounding the city without going too far out of his way appeared simple enough, and he’d gladly do so over accepting the offer of a trump transport. Besides, the breeze was sure to pick up again the closer he got to shore.

With a subtle chirp of tongue behind teeth, Martin squeezed the piebald into a canter, and bypassed the northwest carriage road he’d once followed Tristan down without a second thought.

* * *

Traffic thickened the closer he got to the waterfront town of Grand Arch, and while most passers-by continued their way without regard, Martin found himself ducking to avoid eye contact with increased frequency after he was directed to dismount and queue up for admittance at the city gate. The requirement jarred him slightly (his tutors had noted the place as a centuries-old weigh station for goods and trade moving from Rebma into Amber, and frankly left it at that), but if the newly-constructed guardhouse was any indication, the change was likely a direct result of Corwin’s unexpected reappearance fifteen years ago.

As he settled in to wait, Hank heaved a sigh, and rubbed one eye against the bulb of his rider’s shoulder. The action nudged Martin sideways a half-step, prompting the older gentleman next to him to harumph with a surly glower, and plant his feet against the invasion on his space. Martin muttered an apology in response, and kindly pushed the gelding’s head away before easing back to his previous position until the guard at the gate gestured for him to approach. He answered their questions with bland courtesy - ‘Name,’ _Martin Keene;_ ‘Residence,’ _Noroville;_ ‘Reason for visit,’ _Just passing through_ \- and was summarily waved on.

“Livery?” he inquired on the way by.

The soldier made a vague gesture east in response, but their attention was already settling on the next person in line. So Martin drifted up the street where directed, and secured accommodations for his horse at the first public stable he found, along with a locker for his belongings at the neighbouring hack station.

He then followed the slope of the main roadway toward shore.

* * *

He’d been cruising for LPs at a swap meet in Burbank the first time he saw _Archeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus_. Just a shitty poster board print in a chipped plastic frame, but he’d picked it up for a quarter and taken it home; carefully steamed the stains out, and given it a sturdier display. Today, it hung in his Lab in Texorami.

Another rose glasses recollection, apparently. Struck down now by the onset of Reality.

Granted, until this moment, he’d only ever seen the cairn of Faiella-Bionin from below - where it had been magnified by the water into a colossal structure, and distorted surreal by the same - but still. He’d expected something the size of Lady Liberty, not Cristo Redentor.

“Help you find something, Sir?”

Martin shook his head, flicking a quick acknowledgment to the young man who’d paused to address him.

“Just bracing up, thanks,” he offered in reply.

The local shifted his attention to the breakwater, and let out a mild chuckle.

“Aw, it ain’t so bad,” he said. “Might wish you’d worn different clothes, though. Current’s a bit rough today.”

Martin glanced down at his loose slacks and blouse, his braces and ankle boots. Briefly folded his arms across his chest with a shrug.

“I’m sure they’ll try to force me into something else, once I get down there,” he mused.

The passerby stiffened slightly in his periphery; took a small step, then seemed to examine him more closely.

“Hey, aren’t you-”

Martin rolled his head toward the young man, who fell silent under his flat blue regard.

“My mistake,” he backtracked. Then tipped an imaginary cap, and continued along his course with a perfunctory ‘good day, Sir’.

Martin hummed a small acknowledgment, daring to hope. But when he saw the local pick up speed as he neared the corner, he strode toward the water with a weary sigh, and descended into the undersea nation before his unexpected sighting could become A Scene.

* * *

His previous visit hadn’t required taking the Faiella-Bionin, so the last time Martin had been out this way was the summer after he’d turned fifteen — a quarter century ago from his technical age, and maybe three times that in years passed to the man he was now. Not so long ago in the grand scheme, yet far enough removed that he found himself strolling the downward-sloping avenue with growing bemusement; thrown by the juxtaposition of a vastly expanded worldview, superimposed over the framework of a place he barely remembered.

Where Grand Arch had been established as little more than a port authority on Amber’s end, Bionin’s Reef had begun as one of Rebma’s first outposts, and at its core was still a military town. The completion of the Path to Amber had brought an influx of commerce to the region however, and the resulting population boom had long ago transformed the area into an impressive sprawl of shops and services, boutiques and brokerages, estates and eateries, homes and hotels. They crept up over the sides of the long, slowly curving landings in coralesque formations, their spires connecting in a latticework well below the tideline, surfaces emitting a day-bright phosphorescent glow that he knew would turn golden with the sunset, and silvery overnight.

When those around him continued about their business without regard, the tension he’d picked up at being recognized on the shoreline abated, and Martin determined to examine the city with fresh eyes. Hands in his pockets, he casually stepped out of the flow of traffic to browse the brews on tap at the Dogfish Tavern; traded polite smiles with the violet-haired girl behind the counter before moving on to peruse the window display at Conch Jewelers. He grabbed a snack from a street vendor, and sat on a park bench to eat it when the tart flavour of sunberries crackled nostalgically across his tongue. He tipped a busker making excellent use of a strategically-dented cauldron and a small pair of rods strapped to his thumbs; and another camped out some distance later, who was bellowsing a tune remarkably like _Time in a Bottle_ through a series of paddle-ended reeds.

He continued down toward the checkpoint into Rebma City: generally ignoring the flash of blades on the feet of the warehouse workers navigating the currents overhead, and the shush-and-holler of sledge drivers weaving delivery routes through the foot traffic; occasionally reconciling an unexpected mainstay (how the fuck was Starfish still around?), and the rare Golden Circle establishment (Polk & Dunbar sold hookah diskettes and accessories here, rather than loose-leaf tobacco and pipes) that’d cropped up amid the numerous Coral Reach franchises; but mostly he marveled at how much The Reef reminded him of places like San Francisco, and Monaco, and - if he were being completely honest - Port Laskill.

* * *

The odd parallels were calming for a spell, but ease began to fade as he neared the portcullis. Experience told him people confined to a space with little to occupy their time were more likely to turn to their compatriots in search of a distraction, and while he’d be able to use Hank as a shield topside, he didn’t have the horse to hide behind now. So he purchased a copy of The Rebman Tides from a magazine stand before stepping into line, and flipped through its resinous pages as a diversionary tactic while the queue trudged inexorably forward. When he finally reached the head of the line, Martin carefully folded the publication, and tucked it under his arm.

“Name?” the Registrar asked as he approached, inkstick poised to etch into the ledger on the podium in front of him.

“Martin Ke-”

“No need, Constable,” a familiar female voice clipped from his left. “He’s expected.”

The man glanced over, and did not argue; merely gave a slight nod before waving Martin aside, then redirected his attention to the next person in line, who was in turn examining the man he’d been standing behind for the past ten minutes with an expression of baffled curiosity. Martin flashed him a _c'est la vie_ smile, and turned to regard his aunt’s attaché.

“Rhys,” he said. “You look well.”

“Your Highness,” she addressed. “Welcome back.”

Martin caught the sympathetic flicker across her otherwise sternly professional expression, and his brain tacked on an unspoken _but for the circumstances_ addendum.

“Thank you.” He scanned beyond her shoulder, asking, “Is Llewella not with you?”

“The Princess had other business in the castle, m’lord,” the PA replied. “I am here in her stead.”

Her right arm made a sweeping gesture toward the cluster of sledges lining the concourse, indicating for him to proceed in that direction without further delay, and if the inherent urgency of his aunt’s message had not been indication enough, Rhys’s manner drove the point home. Martin tilted his chin to encourage her to match strides as he passed her, fully prepared to ask a few questions when she obliged-

-only they were flanked by a fistful of Queensguard just beyond the portcullis, and the way Rhys stiffened as their leader took position on Martin’s other side led him to believe their appearance was unexpected. He took a breath to speak up about it, but the head shake she made in his periphery (barely more than a tick) stayed his impulse, and after a pause the attaché managed a polite-enough sounding,

“Captain Delano.”

“Miss Delaray,” the willowy woman returned. Then, with slightly more edge, “Highness.”

Martin felt one eyebrow curl upward, intrigued by the unexpected hostility, but held his tongue and let Rhys take the lead.

“My Lady did not request an escort for us, Captain,” the PA stated, mildly accusatory. “May I ask why you have been dispatched?”

“As Honour Guard, of course,” the commander replied, her returning grin sharklike. “And to assure he reaches his destination swiftly, at the Queen’s behest.”

Martin spoke up at that, mild but firm. “‘He’ is standing right here, Captain Delano, and would appreciate the courtesy of a direct address, if you please.”

The Queensguard shot him a measuring glance, then softened her expression into something only _slightly_ less carnivorous.

“Apologies, Highness,” she offered, her tone anything but apologetic. “The hours grow short, and we only wish to afford you as much time with Her Majesty as possible.”

The captain directed him toward a sleek-framed sledge then - a lightweight model with low carriage, built for speed, which had been parked across the path of the one Martin recognized as Llewella’s - in a manner that brooked no denial. Upon seeing the movement, the quartet of Pullers at his aunt’s conveyance cast expressions of worry and confusion toward Rhys, who made a small gesture that seemed to indicate they should go on without her. They carefully lifted their haul into a clear path, and set off toward the castle at a quick-tempo jog.

Captain Delano frowned after them as six of her squad took position between the traces of the empty vehicle, and strapped in. She appeared on the verge of protest when Llewella’s attaché motioned casually toward the passenger seat, and made a point of addressing Martin directly.

“My Lady would be quite cross if I arrived without you, m’lord,” she advised.

“Likely moreso if you arrived _after,”_ Martin added, genuinely appreciative for the courtesy. “Especially when she sent you all this way to greet me.”

He then offered Rhys a hand over the side rail, which she accepted without hesitation before settling into the far seat. Martin slid in on her right, and folded open the Tides with applied nonchalance. After a pause, Captain Delano stepped onto the driver’s skid behind the two passengers, and released the brake.

As she did, the lone team member waiting beside her bounded forward three long strides, then kicked upward in a way that released the blades that had been clipped to her shins. She put on speed to get ahead of the Pullers, her flippers flashing pearlescent light and emitting a low whine that had the path before them clearing in moments. With an incomprehensible bark from the captain, the team lunged forward into their harnesses, and followed the Herald toward Rebma Castle.

* * *

He attempted to make small talk along the way, but Rhys was pointedly close-lipped for the ride in.

That should have been his first clue that something deeper was afoot.

Instead it wasn’t until she was being dismissed upon arrival, and he was being escorted directly to the Queen’s Chambers, that he determined they’d been intercepted rather than accompanied.

* * *

Martin was on his feet in a flash.

_“What the fuck is wrong with you!”_

His eyes darted around the bedchamber, taking stock of those present and tensing to defend himself as several reached reflexively for armaments. Every fiber of him was screaming _runRunGO_ but fuck he was tired of running from her; sick to death of it.

If this was to be his closure, so fucking be it.

“You _will_ marry Daniella Ghent,” Moire hissed. “You _will_ bring Lir back under the First Banner by your union, and sire heiresses to keep them bound. _You will do your duty.”_

Martin stared down at the woman who had for so long terrorized his subconscious - her once violet eyes now dulled a milky lavender, set deep inside a crinkled facsimile of her former beauty, framed by wisps of seafoam grey hair - and felt .. nothing.

“No,” he replied, flatly.

 _“Your Queen commands it!_ _”_ she hurled back.

His tone didn’t change. “I’ll abdicate.”

She choked on her retort, then studied him as though weighing a possible bluff. He dispelled that notion by adding,

“Don’t think I won’t. Rebma hasn’t been my home for a very long time.”

His words struck her like a blow. She actually pulled back into the pillow, expression caught between outrage and horror. The darker part of him wanted to smirk; to be mean and rub her face in it when she spun off into a tirade:

“Willful-”

“Accurate.”

“Insolent-”

“For now.”

“Stupid, selfish boy-”

“I am none of those things,” Martin finally bit back. He was angry now; at his limit. “And you can kindly fuck off if you think I am.”

He was looming. From the corner of his eye he saw Captain Delano, posted by the foot of the bed, place a warning hand on the sai at her right hip. Martin darted the woman a glance, and eased off. With slow reluctance, she did the same.

“See reason, Martin,” Moire pleaded, saccharine now in her desperation to have him bend to her will. But he wasn’t that child anymore. He knew her sweetness was always bitter, in the end.

“I wish you peace in your final hours, Grandmother,” he said, sketching the smallest bow as he took a backward step toward the exit. “Please make my apologies to the Queen of Lir. May she forgive you for dangling false bait.”

With that he turned, and strode toward the door. For a small moment he wondered if the Queensguard tilting their tridents across the exit would let him leave, but they parted when he showed no intention of stopping, and he lengthened his step as he passed through the antechamber into the hall.

“Martin, wait!”

A flurry of movement in his periphery. His jaw clenched, and he pulled the inside of his lower lip between his teeth as he cycled a deep breath at the call; glanced back over his shoulder to confirm the speaker’s identity, but did not slow.

“I trusted you, Llew,” he gritted out. “Of all the people here, I figured _you_ would be the one least likely to play into her bullshit-”

“Martin, please-”

 _“How long?_ _”_ He abruptly spun on her; needed to look her in the eye for this. “How long after she found out I was still alive - how long after my visit with Random - before she started chumming the Reach with me again?”

His aunt drifted to a stop, and her face rippled through a torrent of conflicting emotions before settling on heartsick resignation.

“A fortnight, perhaps,” she replied, her words dipped low.

Martin made a disgusted noise, and whirled away; resumed his push toward the nearest exit.

“She floated the idea past me when word came that Lir was looking for a Consort,” Llewella advised his back, apparently keeping pace in his wake. “I advocated for you; made it clear that you were your own man, and should be respected as such. When she didn’t mention it again, I thought I’d gotten through to her.”

Martin didn’t slow, so the princess lunged forward to snag his sleeve. He jerked away, but the motion was less effective than it would have been on dry land, only succeeding in pulling her nearer by her fierce grip at his elbow.

“Stop, Martin. Please.”

His momentum whorled her around in front of him, and she protected herself from colliding against his front with a hand to his chest. Her feet touched down, and the pair coasted to a halt. He was trembling with barely-restrained rage, but his aunt didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of it. She looked wretched in a way that felt impossible to fake.

“Is she really dying?” he asked, betrayal still tinting his tone. Llewella gave him a slow nod.

“I checked with her physicians before sending the courier,” she murmured. “Without her knowledge, to be certain. They believe she has days at most.”

 _Good,_ Martin thought, and didn’t feel the least bit guilty for it.

But then the sequence of events slotted into place, and he ground his teeth.

“She’s determined to have her way, though,” he posited, crestfallen. “She summoned you from the Reach, in order to summon me from Shadow.”

His aunt’s expression was unforgiving, her words hard. “There’s an envoy from Lir in the castle as we speak,” she advised. “I ran into them while you were in with Her.”

Martin hung his head, bitter laughter clawing at his chest. As if watching Tristan embrace happiness hadn’t sparked enough malaise for Aunna’s memory…

He suddenly missed her _desperately_. Better than anyone before or since, she’d have commiserated with his situation, and gladly raged against it with him.

“I won’t do it, Llew,” he declared without the slightest amusement. “Resentment aside, I’d be a shit Consort Alliance for having been away so long. But you-”

His aunt abruptly darted a look past his shoulder, her eyes worried even while her face smoothed in serenity. Martin’s brow pinched in a frown, his volume dropping lower.

“Llewella?”

Her lips curved in a disarming smile, and she ran a hand down his arm to wrap around his fingers.

“Come have tea with me,” she offered with feigned brightness, words pitched to carry as she moved to walk by his side. “I’ve brought a lovely new leaf with me from Dunn Shallows I think you’ll enjoy. We can catch up, and discuss what comes next.”

He glanced over his shoulder in following her motion, and spotted a pair of Queensguard poised in the hallway, a short distance from Moire’s chamber. The sight gave him a squirming feeling in his gut, so he nodded.

“As you like,” he replied, forcing himself to relax into the pretense, and allowing her to guide him toward her suites.


End file.
